Bring Her Back
by WRTRD
Summary: What happens in the ambulance, and the first few days in the hospital, after Beckett is shot at Montgomery's funeral. AU end of S3, beginning of S4. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** This story will have a few lines from "Knockout" and "Rise" that everyone will recognize, but everything else is AU.

Is she dead? Is this what dying feels like? She's pretty sure that she's not dying, that she's not in the process of shedding her life. She's pretty sure that that already happened. It was so fast, over in less time than it takes to blow out the candles on a birthday cake, even if there were 100 candles—though she has no way of knowing how long that takes, since she's only 31. Was 31. Will forever be 31, since she's not going to see 32, let alone 100.

She heard one EMT say it: "Flatlined."

She heard the other EMT say it: "No pulse."

That's it, then. She's dead. Detective Kate Beckett, 31. She's picturing her gravestone.

Katherine Houghton Beckett  
Beloved daughter  
November 17, 1979-May 19, 2011

Really? That's all? Not that she's not happy to be, have been, a beloved daughter, but what about beloved wife? Beloved mother? Beloved grandmother? Okay, so she hadn't considered those for a long time. Years. But lately? Oh, yeah. The wife part—even the mother part, eventually. And many, many years in the future, grandmother. But none of those is an option any longer. No longer a possibility.

They were laying Roy Montgomery to rest when it happened, a few minutes ago. She was in the middle of eulogizing the Captain and some sniper shot her. She has no idea where he was when he let loose the bullet that landed in the middle of her chest. Nestled in a tree? Waiting in a tinted-windowed car? Crouched behind a gravestone?

"You gonna shoot me, do it where I can see you," she says loudly. "Do it where I can look into your eyes when you point that gun at me and squeeze the trigger, you cowardly son of a bitch."

No one seems to hear her, which is probably further confirmation that she's dead.

She is seriously pissed off.

But wait a minute. If she's dead, why does it hurt so much? Aren't you supposed to be immune to pain when you're dead? Isn't that one of the paltry advantages of having breathed your last? The only thing worse than the pain that she's feeling—her ribs and heart and veins and lungs are on fire—is the anger. How can she be dead? She has too many things left undone, goddammit.

There's another thing now, the most important thing. She can see, and what she sees is Castle. She's floating around, which is odd because it's so cramped here in the back of the ambulance. There are four of them jammed in the vehicle, its siren wailing: the two EMTs, Castle, and her. No, five, since as of a few seconds ago there are two of her: the dead one on the gurney, and the spectral one. She assumes that she's spectral, anyway, since she's floating and no one notices her at all. What she notices most is this: Castle is crying. The tears are running down his face so fast that they're landing on his black shirt. She can see wet splotches on it. And blood, on his hand. He's probably unaware that it's there, her blood. He runs his knuckles under his eyes, and leaves a broad red streak by one cheekbone.

"She isn't dead," he insists. "You can't let her be dead."

"Sir, please," the woman EMT says. Kate can see her name tag: E. Rodriguez. Elena? Estella? Eloisa? Esperanza? That would be ironic, if she were Esperanza. Esperanza means hope. There's no hope for her, Kate. Katherine. Katherine means pure, clear. She's purely dead now, that's clear.

"She's my partner," Castle says, anxiety scraping through his voice. "She can't die. Can't you stop the bleeding? There's too much blood."

"Sir," the male EMT—name tag S. Jackson—says. "We understand, but please stand back and let us do our job."

There's not much room to stand back in, especially for someone the size of Castle. And though he takes a step away, he's able to put his hand on her ankle; her dress-blue pants have ridden halfway up her calf and she feels the warmth of his palm and his fingers. But how is that possible, since she's dead? She remembers reading that the brain can function for a few minutes after the heart stops beating, so maybe that accounts for it. Oh, God, she'd have given a lot to have felt Castle's fingers wrapped around her leg while she was alive. It's better than she had ever imagined, and she'd imagined plenty.

"I've got a pulse. She's alive," Rodriguez says.

The pain is crushing now. It's a brick wall, a tsunami, an ocean, a mountain, a volcano, a cement mixer, a freight train, something, of agony. She doesn't know, she can't think. She's aware of moving but not moving. She's on her back and something is moving under her, rolling. There are voices all around, but she can't sort them out. They're like bits of melody that she can't grab on to before they disappear. Whatever she's on is moving faster, and someone is next to her. Lanie, it's Lanie, pumping her chest. She's trying to tell her friend to stop, but she can't push the words past her lips. It's excruciating. Please stop, Lanie. Stop, please.

"Stay with me!" Lanie shouts. "Stay with me!"

And now Lanie's gone. Where did she go? Where is Castle? Castle told her that, too, she's sure. It's so hard to focus, but this is vivid. He said, "Stay with me, okay? Kate, I love you." That was before, and outside. She remembers the blue sky around him, and his hands, one under her head, the other at her ribs. This doesn't feel like outside. They aren't outside. She isn't. Where is he? Castle. She can't see him. She can't see at all. She hears doctors, yelling, people are yelling. She feels herself being lifted up and put on a table. Someone puts something on her face. A mask? Is it a mask? She's—.

Castle is in the hospital corridor. He'd tried to chase the gurney through the doors towards the O.R., but two orderlies had stopped him, and now he's in a tiny, grieving huddle with Lanie, Espo, and Ryan. The boys have already ordered surveillance video from in and around the cemetery. Who has cameras trained on a graveyard, anyway? They haven't found the shooter, who must slipped away in the chaos. Maybe he was dressed as a mourner. Maybe he was dressed as a cop. Maybe he is a cop. Jesus. The boys said that cops had found the rifle, something Special Forces like to use, and are running the prints.

He wishes he had a surveillance camera on the O.R. What are they doing to her in there? She can't die. Can't. They revived her in the ambulance, she can't die here. Won't. She's a fighter, the most impressive fighter he's ever known. Muhammad Ali has nothing on her. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee? That's her, way more than it is Ali. That's Beckett. That's Kate.

"Richard!"

"Dad!"

His mother and daughter run to him, and no sooner has he taken them into his arms than Jim Beckett appears, looking equal parts furious and terrified.

"Where's Katie?" he asks.

What Castle is longing to say, father-to-father, is, "She's in surgery. They're fixing her up. She'll be good as new. She's probably already demanding that the doctor let her go back to work tomorrow." But he can't.

And then there's Josh Davidson, who engages four of Castle's senses in quick succession. He hears him first, then sees him–in his blue scrubs and white sneakers splattered with red—then smells him, a potent, ghastly, coppery-acidic mix of blood and sweat. Lastly, he feels him when the surgeon slams him up against the wall.

"You did this!" Davidson says. "This is your fault. You pushed her to look into her mother's murder. She was shot because of you, and Montgomery is dead because of you!"

He wishes the bastard were carrying a scalpel, because he'd tear it out of his hand and bury it in his chest. Except that Davidson's right. Shit, he's right. It is his fault. He did virtually push her into the line of fire, even if he'd tried to knock her out of it. He probably had no chance against a projectile that travels 1,800 miles an hour. If only he'd reacted when he'd seen the first light caroming off the gun barrel. If only he hadn't waited. She'd be alive. She wouldn't be in the O.R.

She's hovering again, this time in a bigger space. It's an operating room. She's looking at her dead self, so pale, the incisions in her chest, the heart no longer beating. She realizes how often she heard the expression "life's blood" without giving it much thought. There it is, her (former) life's blood, all over everything: the floor, the sheet on which her corpse is lying, the gloves and gowns of the team that worked on her. "Cardiac arrest," the chief doctor just said.

Dead again. That's two lives she's lost today. What are the chances she'll get a third? Why do cats get nine? Where's the justice in that? She looks frantically for Castle, but of course he's not here. They'd never let him in here. But if he were he'd be pushing them like hell for that third life, just as he had pushed like hell for a second one in the ambulance.

"Get Castle! Find Castle! He'll make you give me another chance. Please!" No one hears her this time, either.

Or did they? Here come the paddles again. She remembers they used them before. "Clear," the doctor barks, just as he had before. "Clear."

Castle is alternately pacing and sitting. How long have they been waiting? How long has she been in there? Is it a good sign or a bad one that no doctor has come out to talk to them? No doctor but Josh, who didn't talk to them at all, just screamed at him and stormed off after Beckett's father told the two of them off for fighting. Which they deserved. Josh must have been made to leave the O.R. since he wouldn't be allowed to operate on his girl friend. His girl friend. Dammit. Oh, finally. Finally. Here's a doctor walking towards them. Doctor Kovacs.

He tells them that she went into cardiac arrest during surgery, but that they'd gotten her heart going again. "We'll need to watch her very closely," Kovacs says.

He'll watch her very closely. If they let him go to her room, he'll sit by her bed forever, very closely watching her. For as long as it takes for her to open her eyes again, so he can tell her that he loves her. But Kovacs says that Jim Beckett can see her in a while, and that the rest of them should go home. It's only right, that Jim stay with his daughter. But as for him going home? Not going to happen. He and Espo and Ryan will get on this case and work it like no case has ever been worked in the history of the NYPD. His mother and Alexis head for home, but he's with the boys, and they're off to the Twelfth.

There's fog. Not fog. She's foggy. There's something in her nose. And something in her wrist, and at her elbow. It's pulling. She hates it. She wants to yank everything out. She's trying to open her eyes. There is a dull pain everywhere. She can't tell where it's emanating from, but maybe her chest. When she breathes it hurts, and there's something on her chest. It pulls, too, with each breath. Tape, is there tape? She's aware of a hand now, a warm, larger hand that's holding hers. Castle! No, it's not Castle's. A hand more familiar than his. Familiar for a long time. It's her father's.

"Da?"

"Katie, thank God. Oh, thank God. You're awake."

"Seep?" How can it be so hard to talk, if she's been asleep? And what is the smell, and the sound of a machine to her left? It must be a machine, since it's making machine-like sounds. Beeps. Pings. Her throat hurts; it feels raw and dry.

"No, you weren't asleep, sweetheart. You just had surgery."

"Wy? Why?" Her eyes keep closing, but she sees him for a few second. He looks so old. Old and so worried. Now his other hand is on her forehead. He's brushing her hair from her face the way he used to when she was little.

"You were shot. At Captain Montgomery's funeral. But you'll be fine. You're fine."

If she's fine, why does she feel like this? "No fine. Hurt."

"Let me get the nurse."

"No, Dad. Whrr."

"What, sweetheart?"

"Whr. Wtr."

"Oh, water. I have to ask if it's all right for you to have a drink of water. I don't know. Maybe some ice chips. I can get you some ice chips."

"Get Csl, Dad. Cas." She has to say it right. She will. "Where Castle?"

TBC

 **A/N** to Moochiechat. Could you PM me, please? I'd like to ask you something about Tony Hillerman. Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"The doctor doesn't want you seeing anyone yet," her father says. "Tomorrow maybe. You need to be stronger."

Why doesn't he answer her question? Maybe he didn't understand. Her voice sounds funny. She'll ask him again. "Castle here?"

He sighs, and moves uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair that he has drawn up to her bedside. "Your doctor sent everyone but me home for the night, so you can get some rest."

"Who here?" She tries to lift her hand, but can't.

"Everyone. Lanie, Detectives Esposito and Ryan, Rick and his family. They all waited the whole time you were in surgery. They waited until the doctor gave us a report on you."

"Ice. Please. Ice."

"Of course, I'm sorry. I should have done that right away. I'll go ask."

Everyone was here. Because she was shot. Why did someone shoot her? All she remembers is Castle. Castle was there. She thinks she was cold, but wasn't the sun shining? Was she on the ground? Did the bullet make her fall to the ground? And somewhere else. Wasn't he somewhere else with her? After that? Maybe Dad can tell her. Later. She's too tired.

Her eyes close.

Jim Beckett approaches his daughter's glass-fronted room, accompanied by a nurse who is carrying a plastic cup with ice chips. "I'll see if she's alert enough for this, Mister Beckett. If not, we can at least moisten her lips."

When he gets to the door, he drops his voice to a whisper. "It looks like she's gone back to sleep. She was very groggy before, but she made sense."

"When she wakes up again, I'll bring her some ice chips."

Jim Beckett sits with his daughter for more than an hour before she stirs.

"Dad?"

"Good, you're awake. Are you still thirsty, Katie?"

"Yes." She wants to clear her throat, but the pain is too great. She manages to lift her arm a little, and tries to point. "Hurts."

Her father looks over his shoulder. "Here comes your doctor. Oh, and Josh. I'll go out in the corridor while they're examining you, okay? I'll be right there. You can see me."

" 'kay." Why is Josh here? He's in scrubs. She must be in his hospital. Did he operate on her? "Josh?"

He bends over and kisses her lightly on the forehead. "Hi, Kate."

"Ms. Beckett, I'm Doctor Kovacs. I operated on you earlier today. I'm going to take a look at your wound sites, see how you're doing."

" 'kay. Josh didn't?"

"Operate on you? No, that would be against protocol since you're—involved."

"Oh." She understands what he says to her, about what he did, about her convalescence. That was his word, convalescence. Also recovery period. He's saying the summer? The whole summer? No. "Go home?"

"Maybe in a week, we'll see. You're a remarkably strong woman, but you sustained very serious injuries."

"She lives alone," Josh says.

Kovacs frowns. "You won't be able to be on your own for a while, even when you're home. Is there someone who can help? Your father?"

"I could."

No, no, no. She doesn't want Josh to help. Castle helps her. He was at the cemetery with her. He was helping her. That's what she remembers. Josh wasn't there. Josh is always going away. "Castle."

"Sorry, Castle?" Kovacs raises an eyebrow.

Josh looks mad. He looks mad whenever she talks about Castle, doesn't he? She thinks so.

"Rick Castle. A writer. He sort of works with Kate and the other detectives. Hangs out with them."

Why is he so mad? He sounds mean. "Works. Castle helps."

"Well, you have plenty of time to get things in order before you leave here, Ms. Beckett," Kovacs says. "I'm told that you're reluctant to say when you're in pain. That's admirable, but not advisable right now. It's important that you let someone know—your father, for instance, or a nurse or doctor—if you're in considerable discomfort. All right?"

"Yes."

"The nurse gave you something for it when we came in just now, so you should be all right for a few hours, at least."

"Okay."

"And you can have water now, but only small sips. Your throat should be feeling much better already. Is it?"

"Yes." He seems nice. Nicer than Josh, who still looks mad. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll stop by later." He puts his hand on her arm and leaves, but Josh stays.

"I'll look after you Kate. It's much better if a professional does it."

She could ask her father. "Doctor said Dad." She swallows, and it's not as difficult as it had been. "Dad could."

"Castle almost got you killed, Kate."

What does that mean? Castle helped her. She doesn't want to listen. She shuts her eyes but still hears Josh. "Get Dad. Please. Josh. My dad." She keeps her eyes closed until Josh finally says something.

"Fine. I'll get your father."

That didn't sound fine. His 'fine' sounded unfine. Here comes Dad. "Hi."

"Hi. Josh said you wanted talk to me."

"Don't want him here."

"You don't—"

"Just water, Dad."

"That I can do for you, sweetheart." He picks up the cup that's next to her bed and brings it gently to her mouth. "Use the straw. Little sips. You always loved getting a straw, remember? When Mom let you have chocolate milk for a treat."

"Yeah." She's trying to smile. Is she smiling? It's hard to tell. She takes a few sips. Much better. "What time's it?"

He looks at his watch. "After ten. I should let you sleep now. You really need to rest. I'd stay, but they don't want me overnight in the ICU."

"Okay."

"Good night, Katie." He kisses her on the cheek and is almost at the door when she calls to him.

"Wait!"

He turns so fast, and looks ashen. "What's wrong?"

She made him worry. She's sorry. But she's worried about something. It's probably stupid, but it's not stupid. It's important. She manages to touch her wrist with her other hand. "Just." She has to ask. "My watch?"

"Oh, your _watch_." He looks relieved. "I'm sure they took it off you in the O.R., probably locked it away for you."

Her eyes are huge and cloudy.

"Would you like me to ask the nurse?"

She nods.

A few minutes later he's back, holding a small plastic bag. "Here it is. You can't wear it right now, and the nurse said it's best not to leave it here. Would you like me to take it home? Hold on to it until you're out of here?"

"Thanks, Dad."

He tucks the bag in his jacket pocket, kisses her again, and waves from the door.

Something wakes her up, something beeping. She's breathing hard. Was she dreaming? Was that a dream, then?

"Ms. Beckett? Your pulse rate is up. Is the pain worse?"

It's a nurse. "Yeah."

"On a scale of one to ten?"

One to ten? How about a hundred? "Three."

"Really? Doctor Kovacs warned us you might try to be too brave about this. You sure it's only three? You don't have to be a stoic right now. It's much better not to be. You'll heal better."

Which is worse, the pain in her body or in her brain? The dream was awful. If she has more painkillers, will she sleep harder? Will the dream come back? Maybe she can be in the middle. Not say ten. The middle somewhere. "Six."

"Atta girl," the nurse says. "Good start, anyway."

In her dream, Castle got shot in the head. At their Captain's funeral. She was in the ambulance with him. His blood was on her hands. He was dead. She tries to push the image away, tries to fight off sleep, but she can't.

When she wakes, she notices for the first time a clock on the wall. It says 6:32, so it's morning, must be morning. Dad has her watch. Her watch is safe. Her head is clearer; she hadn't dreamt again. The pain is fierce, but she can think better. She lies there, putting together pieces as if it were a jigsaw, or a crime scene. She was part, is part of a crime scene. But what she remembers most is what Josh said. "Castle almost got you killed, Kate." He hadn't. Why did Josh say that? Dad said everyone was at the hospital when she was in surgery. She needs to talk to one of them. Ryan. Ryan is best. She can trust Ryan. She trusts all of them, but she needs Ryan. Where's her phone?

She doesn't get it back until the clock says 7:00, had to argue with the nurse to give it to her. She's a little clumsy typing, but texts her colleague.

"Please call me. Don't tell anyone I texted. Thanks."

When the clock says 7:06, her phone rings. "Beckett? I can't believe it's you."

"It's me."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I got shot." Did he just gasp when she said that? She hears him clear his throat.

"Sounds like the bullet didn't damage your cop humor. That's good. Um, what can I do for you? Is this a secret or something?"

"It's, well. It's personal. And I trust you."

"Wow. Thank you. So?"

"You were here during my surgery, right? Here in the hospital."

"Of course. We all were. But now? We're all over your case. All over it."

"I'm sure you are. Not why I called." How is she going to ask, exactly? Maybe just ask. Directly. "Was Josh there?"

"You mean with us? Waiting?"

"Yes."

"Uh, no."

"He wasn't waiting with you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Ryan, I have a really, really good BS meter, even with a hole in my chest. He was there, wasn't he?"

"Okay, yes. Not waiting, but before."

"Did something happen?"

"Happen?"

"Between him and Castle. If you don't tell me, I'll ask someone else, but I don't want to. Please."

Even on the cell she can hear the air whoosh out of him. "Before your doctor came out."

"Doctor Kovacs."

"Right. Before he came out, when we were still waiting to hear about you, he ran down the hall and yelled something like 'A sniper at a funeral!' Castle said that he'd tried to get to you, and that's when Motorcycle—when Josh slammed him up against the wall. Hard. Castle tried to go after him, but Javi and I pulled them apart.

"Was that it?"

"Pretty much."

She gives him a minute to elaborate, but he's silent. "Ryan."

"Okay. All right. Josh said Castle had pushed you into looking at your Mom's case and that you and the Captain were shot because he did that."

"Was my Dad there? Please tell me he wasn't."

"He was the one who got them to stop. Said he didn't want them behaving like three-year-olds while, you know. And that was the end of it. Really."

"Okay. One more. You find anything on my case?"

"The rifle. The guy's rifle. In the confusion, we were told it had prints, but it turns out the shooter wiped it clean. But we're running DNA. We'll get something, Beckett. We will."

"Thanks, Ryan."

"You're welcome."

"Promise not to tell anyone we talked, please?"

"I won't. We'll all come see you as soon as you're ready."

"Good. That's good. Bye."

Josh was right, a little bit right, but he was so wrong. Yes, Castle pushed her into the case again, but look what he'd done. She'd been furious at him at first, but later, well. Look what they'd found. He'd helped her find. But then after what happened, what they learned about McCallister and Raglan, he'd begged her to walk away. And then he went over the line. Told her that she was afraid, that she was hiding in nowhere relationships. She'd been in a rage. She said terrible, terrible things to him. Kicked him out of her apartment and her life. And asked the Captain to kick him out of the precinct. Roy said he would, he could have, but that Castle was so good for her. Made her happy. That's what he said. And when it came to the showdown on the roof? That was last week, just last week. Roy's last day, last night, on Earth. He called Castle to come get her, to spare her. And Castle had. He'd come, and carried over his shoulder, to keep her away from Lockwood. To save her.

She's crying now, and it hurts. The sobbing hurts. She's crying for Roy and her mother and Castle and everything that's lost. She doesn't want to be lost without Castle. He stood by her at the funeral. He looked at her when she was giving the eulogy. Did he knock her down? Her memory is all muddled about that. But Ryan said that Castle told Josh he tried to get her out of the way. The one memory from the cemetery that she trusts is of Castle telling her he loves her. That can't be a fantasy, can it?

"Ms. Beckett? Tell me about the pain."

It's Dr. Kovacs. She must look like the wrath of God.

"You're crying. Your hand is on your chest. Has your pain increased? You've not had anything since"—he pauses to consult her chart—"two a.m. That's five and a half hours ago."

She can deal with that pain. It's awful, but she can deal with it. Don't ask her about the psychic pain. "It's not too bad. I guess I could use something, though." She's trying to pull herself together. "I know I could use a Kleenex."

The doctor smiles at her. "I've always heard that cops—police officers—have a good sense of humor."

"You can call us cops. We call ourselves that."

"I'm impressed. But you've been through an ordeal, a serious trauma, and you have a long recovery ahead. I meant what I said to you last night. Please don't try to tough out the pain, all right? I promise that we won't overmedicate you, if you're worried about that. I'm sure Doctor Davidson can reassure you of that."

"Is he here?"

"Doctor Davidson? He's off shift, but you need some time to sleep, too. The nurse and I are going to check your dressings, and she'll give you something for the pain, and then you should nap."

"All right."

Whatever they give her knocks her out. She wakes up a few times, but never for longer than a moment. It's early afternoon before she's really alert, and she rings for the nurse.

"Could you see if Doctor Davidson is here, please? I'd like to see him."

"I'll page him right now."

"Thank you."

She doesn't count the seconds, but he's there very quickly. "Kate," he says, as he strides to her bed, then bends over to kiss her cheek.

Without having intended to, she moves her face away from him. "Josh."

"Is everything all right?"

"What a question." She looks seriously at him. "But that's not why I asked you to come. I heard you shoved Castle. In the waiting room. And accused him of things. In front of my Dad." She got it out, at some expense. It's hard to catch her breath.

Josh glowers. "Is that what he told you? Castle? What a shitty little snitch he is."

"He's not a snitch. Someone else told me."

Josh circles her wrist with his thumb and index finger. "Listen, Kate."

There's a sound of another pair of feet, stumbling into the room, and she looks up to see her unexpected guest in the doorway.

"Hey, Castle."

A/N Thank you very much for reading and weighing in. It's great to hear from you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** I've always wondered who phoned Castle to tell him that Beckett was ready for visitors. In "Rise," he's asleep at Ryan's desk the morning after the shooting, and wakes when his cell rings. All he says in response to the caller, whom we cannot hear or see, is, "Yeah? Are you sure?" So: I exercised writer's prerogative and decided who alerted him.

Castle is a man divided, split in two emotionally. Beckett is alive, and smiling at him, but Josh is sitting next to her, holding her hand. In that instant, Castle is both ecstatic and crushed. The vase of flowers he's carrying tilts precariously, and he grabs it just before the water cascades onto her bed. Or onto Josh, which would have been satisfying.

"I'll see you after," the doctor says, kissing the patient on the forehead and exiting, but not before glaring at the man whom he obviously regards as an interloper, and worse.

"Um, sorry I interrupted, Beckett." He feels so awkward.

"You didn't." She picks at the hem of her sheet. "You're staring at me. I must look really bad."

"No, I just thought I'd never see you again." He stands there silently until he more or less recovers his senses. "Oh, I brought you these," he blurts, setting the vase next to a panoply of flowers. "Looks like I should have chosen something else."

"They're mostly from the precinct, I think. Thank you, Castle. They're beautiful."

"So are you." Oh, God. What has he done? "I mean, you look amazing for someone who just—. Someone who had—. You know, major surgery. Yesterday." He doesn't know what to do with his big hands or his big feet. Or his big mouth.

"Sit down," she says.

"Okay." He perches on the edge of the chair that was so recently occupied by someone he'd rather not think of, especially in these circumstances.

"Make yourself comfortable, Castle. You look like you might topple onto the floor."

She's worried about his comfort? Wow. He slides back until he gets the full support of the molded-plastic chair. "I hope it's okay that I'm here. Lanie called me. Said you were awake and, uh, talking."

"She did?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad."

"You are?"

"Yeah." She smiles again, tentatively. "This isn't quite the level of our usual conversation, is it?"

Relief spills out of him as a chuckle. "No, I guess not. My sparkling repartee must have fallen out of my pocket somewhere." Her face is so thin. Her cheekbones look as sharp as a scalpel, and he wants to shield them, warm them with the cover of his hands, but his hands stay on his lap. He has no right to caress her face.

"Castle?"

"Mmm?"

"I want. I need to ask you something."

"Okay." He sees her swallow, hard. It must be painful, her throat. "Are you all right? Should I get you water, a nurse—"

"No, no. I'm all right. It's. I. Did you and Josh have a fight in the hallway? While I was in surgery?"

Oh, hell, here it is. He's mortified. The child in him wants to scream, "He started it!" but he shoves the impulse away. He has to man up. How did she find out, anyway? Oh. Her father. The man probably wants to kick his butt to Poughkeepsie. Maybe Albany. Even Montreal. "I'm sorry, Beckett," he says, his hands up in contrition. "I shouldn't have done it. There's no excuse, I—"

She cuts him off mid-apology. "I heard he provoked you."

Say what? "Oh?"

"I heard he slammed you up against the wall."

"Well, yeah, he did."

"And accused you of pushing me into chasing my mom's case again. And that the Captain and I were shot because you did that."

He's at a loss here. He is, for one of the rare times in his life, incapable of deciding how to respond. But he can't avoid her look, a look of such complexity that it would take him half an hour to sort out. He has no concept of how long it takes him to say, "He did. He was right."

"Oh, Castle."

The sound of those two words tear his heart apart as surely as a bullet ripped into hers. "He's right." He loathes the guy, but it's the truth. "This is on me. It will always be on me."

"Stop it."

He freezes, and as he does, he watches her hand, bruised and taped, inch shakily to his until her index finger rests on his thumb.

"I'm a grown woman. I'm responsible for my own actions. This is not on you. You can't bear that burden, all right?" She shakes her head. "I have another question for you, it's more important, but I need some more meds now, and I'm so tired. I'm just out of steam."

Shoving his chair back noisily, he gets to his feet. "I'm sorry. Of course. I'll go. I'm so sorry."

She has collapsed against the tilted back of her bed. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay. Take care of yourself." He was going to say something else, but he sees her ringing for the nurse. "Bye." At the door, he turns to look back and she gives him a just discernible wave.

Where should he go? To the precinct, to help chase down leads? Are there any leads? Should he wait here? He's suddenly, unaccountably ravenous, but hospital cafeteria food won't do the trick. Besides, there's a one-in-something chance that he'll bump into Davidson there, and a one-in-anything chance is one too much. On the way out of the lobby he remembers a 24/7 diner on a side street about ten blocks away; he and Beckett had gone there once last winter after an unsatisfactory stakeout. The food and the coffee, on the other hand, were way more than satisfactory. Maybe it will be his good luck diner.

He gets a tiny booth in the back and tries to remember exactly what they'd eaten. After a waitress with hair even more improbably red than his mother's approaches his table with a coffee pot, he orders a double stack of chocolate-chip waffles and syrup, scrambled eggs with home fries and chicken-apple sausage, and a toasted sesame-seed bagel with cream cheese.

"Sorry, sir. I'll get some more silverware. I didn't realize someone was joining you."

"No need. I'm by myself."

Twenty-seven years on the job, she's never seen one person order that much for breakfast. Where does he put it? She holds her pencil over her pad again. "Toast comes with the eggs," she says solemnly. "What kind would you like?"

"You have cinnamon-raisin?"

"We do."

"I'll have that, please."

"Anything else?" She's not trying to be funny; she's just curious.

"Oh, yes. I forgot. A hot chocolate. With lots of whipped cream."

"Right. Hot chocolate. I'll get right on that."

Must be a binge eater, she thinks, as she puts in his order. Strange, because he looks so healthy.

He sips on his excellent coffee, pleased that he's recalled what they'd eaten on that freezing cold morning. Cold and dark, dawn still an hour away. And now it's May twentieth, it's 60 degrees and sunny, and she's in a hospital bed getting whatever awful thing it is through an IV, and he's here replicating a breakfast that they'd had in January, when her heart was still whole and hadn't stopped beating, twice. "Cheer up, you ass," he mumbles as he sees the waitress closing in, hefting a large, dented aluminum tray.

Maybe it's the rush of carbs and fat, but he does cheer up. The doctor had said that Beckett would make a full recovery. And it had seemed that she might, just might, be taking his side, not Josh's, in the embarrassing and unfinished fight. He wants to punch out that pretty-boy face. Maybe run over him lightly with his own motorcycle, just enough to break his foot.

Except. Except. Except when he had walked into her room this morning, Josh had been holding her hand. Wrist. The memory of it delivers a blow to his cheeriness. He checks his phone again, obsessively, to make sure that the battery isn't low, that the ringer is on full volume. She'd said she'd call, and he can't miss it. He's been here an hour, and can't possibly order any more food, so he asks for the check and leaves a tip that's as fat as he feels.

He takes a cab to the precinct, even though the subway would be much faster, but there's no cell reception underground and he's waiting for the call. He works with the boys for a few hours, but they get nowhere on the case and tempers are fraying, so he walks home in the soft air. The loft is empty because it's Friday afternoon and he'd sent his mother and Alexis to the Hamptons for the weekend. The sun may not be over the yardarm in Manhattan, but it is somewhere, so he pours himself a stiff drink and carries it into his office where he spends two hours researching gunshot wounds to the chest and the bonafides of Doctor Kovacs. He admits that they're impressive. Top of his class at Johns Hopkins Medical School. He doesn't need to look of Josh's credentials; he'd done that months ago. Josh had not gone to Johns Hopkins, and had not graduated anywhere near first in his class. "Eat your heart out, Davidson," he says out loud. "It's a good meal for a cardiac surgeon."

It's almost 8:00, he's not entirely sober, and he's feeling glum. When he gets in this kind of mood, he often sings, and he's currently semi-crooning a Lionel Richie hit.

 _I want to do all I can, just to show you.  
_ _Make you understand.  
_ _Only you, the only one that stole my heart away._

The phone rings; he drops it. "Beckett?" His fingers aren't working right. "Beckett? Beckett?"

'Castle?"

"Yes. It's me. Is everything all right?"

"You do know I'm in the hospital?"

"Yes. Yes, I do know. I know you're there. Can I come visit you?"

"I'm sorry I didn't call before. It was—. Doctors have been in and out all day, and changing my lines and my bandages and my meds. Wore me out."

"Can I come in the morning then?"

She doesn't answer right away.

"Beckett?"

"I was wondering. If, would you like to come now?"

"Why, yes," he says, hoping that he sounds dignified. "I would, yes. I'll be there soon. Very soon. On my way in a minute."

"Don't rush. I'm not going anywhere in the immediate future."

"I want to rush. But I won't rush so much that I fall down."

"Have you been drinking?"

"Just a little. I'll be stone-cold sober any second."

It's a little more than 1,000 seconds, but he's not very drunk, and plunging his head into ice water and drinking twelve ounces of coffee almost strong enough to bore a hole through a china mug sobers him up well. He brushes his teeth, runs out of his building, and gets a cab with one whistle.

It's dark out now, and the light in her room is low. When he knocks on her doorjamb, she raises her head. She looks glad to see him.

"Hey."

"Hey." He dips his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out an iPod Nano and ear buds. "I loaded this for you. Old school, right? But kind of easier than the phone in your situation. Thought you might be bored in here."

"That's sweet. Thanks, Castle."

He sits in the same plastic chair that he'd been in almost twelve hours ago. "You're welcome."

"Listen," she says, but stops. She looks nervous. "This is hard for me."

Hard for her is going to translate as harder for him. She's going to kick him out before he's had a chance. She's going to do it nicely, but he'll never get to tell her that she's the one who stole his heart away.

"Remember before, when I said I had another question for you?"

She looks very small in the bed, even though it's not a big bed.

"Of course. Yes. Sure."

"Did you knock me down?"

"Knock you down?"

"At Montgomery's funeral. When someone tired to shoot me."

"They did shoot you, Kate." He hadn't wanted her to know. He'd failed. He hadn't moved fast enough.

"But you knocked me down, didn't you? You were trying to get me out of the way, and then you'd have gotten shot."

"I guess. But if I'd been quicker, we'd both have been fine."

"You could have taken a bullet in the back Castle. It could have hit your spine. It could have paralyzed you. It could have killed you. You could have died in front of Alexis and your mother."

"But I didn't. And you could have died in front of your father. And then where would he be? And me?" He jabs his finger into his chest, a chest that's intact, that hasn't been blasted apart or sliced open. "Where would we be?"

She shrinks into the starched white sheets. "You look so angry Castle. Why are you angry?

"I watched you die in that ambulance, did you know that? You know what that's like? Watching the life drain out of someone you—someone you care about?"

"It was you." Her breath is getting labored. "You were in the ambulance, weren't you? I knew it but I didn't know it. I saw you."

He's ashamed of himself for showing his temper. Her urging to the contrary, this is his fault. "I'm sorry, Beckett. I'm sorry. I've been so worried, but it doesn't excuse—"

"You saved me." The effort and the emotion of the last few minutes overwhelms her, and she begins to cry.

"Castle?"

The voice, more like a bark, is coming from behind him, and in four strides its owner is next to the bed.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Josh demands. "And what the hell have you done to Kate?"

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you for your enthusiastic support for this story. I hope to post the next chapter on Sunday. Have a good weekend.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Castle is bristling. "What am I _doing_ here? What does it look like I'm doing? I'm visiting my partner. My friend."

"Yeah, but what you're obviously doing is upsetting her." Davidson is physically crowding him now. "I have to ask you to leave."

"Leave?" He's trying to maintain some measure of civility in front of Beckett, but he's not about to let this douche order him around. "Under whose authority?"

"Mine. She's my patient."

"Really? It's my understanding that she's under the care of Doctor Kovacs, not you. So, if it's all right with Kate, I'll stay a little longer."

Beckett is looking at neither of them; her stony glance is aimed somewhere at the wall. But then she turns her face back to the surgeon and says evenly, "I asked Castle to come see me. I can decide. I can take care of myself."

"Really? Tell that to the bullet we extracted from your chest. Tell that to the pulmonary vein that I clamped to keep you alive."

"Josh." Her eyes have filled again.

"Looks like you're the one who's upsetting her, Davidson," Castle says, civility ebbing.

"Let's have this conversation elsewhere, not in front of the patient." Davidson glares at him. "Come with me."

"Fine." Castle gets up from the chair, and at the door he says over his shoulder, "Beckett? I'll be right back."

"Don't count on it," Josh says, his hand at Castle's elbow.

Once they're in the corridor, Castle wrests his arm away and Josh leads them to a small, windowless consulting room. "We have privacy here," he says, gesturing for Castle to come in before he closes the door. "I don't know what the hell she sees in you," he says, turning on him. He's not actually spitting, but it sounds as though he is. "Money, I guess."

"Money? You call her your girlfriend, but you haven't a clue about her. I've never met anyone less interested in money." They're standing no more than 18 inches apart, and the air is already electric. "What exactly do you know about her anyway, Davidson? You know the name of the dog she got for her sixth birthday? How about her favorite book? Or movie? Or color?" He feels his jaw twitch and his face get warm; he involuntarily balls up his hands. "And I'm just getting started. How many times did she have to get her father out of the drunk tank? Why do polar bears make her cry? Why did she get suspended in middle school? What knock-knock joke cracks her up?"

"Knock-knock joke? Jesus, Rick. You ever going to grow up?"

"You can tell a lot about someone by the jokes they like."

"You know what? I'm sick of this shit. I have to hear about you all the time. I know what your favorite movie is, for Chrissake."

That takes him aback. "You do?"

"Yeah. I know plenty. But more to the point? I know Kate in important ways, ways you never will."

"To quote you, Josh," he says, biting down hard on the name, "don't count on it."

When Davidson shoves him against the wall this time, it's with considerably more force, and even more menace. "You fucking my girlfriend?"

"No—"

" 'cause I'll tell you what she really likes—"

It's a mistake to underestimate Castle's speed, strength, and agility, especially when he is angry. He's as angry now as he has ever been, and his opponent has underestimated him in every way. He comes off the wall with silent and terrifying force: his right fist lands in the middle of Davidson's face and his left in his solar plexus. "You son of a bitch," he grits out, as the doctor folds over and drops to the floor.

He stands over him, the gentlemanly side almost, but not quite, compelling him to give the doctor his handkerchief to staunch the blood that's running from both nostrils. "Your diaphragm has contracted, hasn't it? Can't quite get your breath, can you? Here's something you don't know about me. I work out. I bench press more than three hundred pounds. I spend fifteen minutes on a speed bag and do a hundred pushups every day. Every day. Sometimes twice."

When Josh stops gasping, begins to breathe normally, and rolls over to get up, Castle does not offer to help. Instead, he resumes talking. His voice is low and icy. "I know exactly how to hurt someone without hurting him, or how to hurt him a little, or a lot. I know how to do it without leaving a mark, though today wasn't one of those times. You should be glad I didn't break your hands. That's what, fifty-four bones total? I'm sure one of your plastic surgeon buddies can fix your nose for you." He grabs the doorknob and turns it. "And don't even think about pressing charges. I have the security-cam footage of you coming after me yesterday in the hallway. Sets a precedent, you know? Conduct unbecoming a medical professional."

He has to get outside, get air, before he goes back to Beckett's room. There's a sign for an interior staircase just ahead of him, and he races down six flights to the ground floor. He doesn't stop until he's out of the building and around the back by the ambulance bay, where he slides to the ground, his back supported by the concrete wall, and puts his head between his knees.

"Sir, you all right?" An EMT has approached him. "Oh. Oh, Castle, isn't it? I'm Jackson. Sam Jackson. I was in the bus with you yesterday."

"Jackson," Castle says, looking up. "I remember you. Thanks. Thank you, Sam. I'm Rick."

"I heard your partner made it. She's gonna be okay. That's good. You don't look so good, though."

"I'm fine. Really. It just all kind of caught up with me, you know?"

"I do. You need a hand?"

"No. I'll be fine in a minute. Thanks. Thanks for saving Beckett. Thank you for bringing her back. Thank—uh, I'm sorry, I don't know your partner's name?"

"Rodriguez. Elena Rodriguez."

"Would you thank her too, please?

"Sure." He squeezes Castle's shoulder. "Just doing our job. Got lucky this time."

He's grateful that it's dark, so when he walks to a trash can in a sheltered area behind the building and throws up, no one sees him. Or maybe they do, and are nice enough not to mention it.

Beckett.

He has to go back to Beckett, right now. What if Josh is there? Nah, he won't be. Not a chance. He'll be busy getting his pretty boy face fixed. Jesus, he broke the guy's nose. He broke the guy's nose and he has no regrets. No remorse, either. He stops in the men's room off the hospital lobby to wash his face and hands. He's surprised that there's only a dull ache in his right hand, the one that connected with bone and cartilage, and crushed both. Anxious as he is to see Beckett, he has one call to make first. There's no one else in here, so he pulls up his favorites list and presses a name.

"Ryan? It's Castle."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, I'm at the hospital. Been visiting Beckett. She's doing well. Listen, I've got a favor to ask."

"Anything."

"Off the books."

"Okay."

"Can you find out if there's a security camera in the hallway where we were yesterday? After they brought Beckett in?"

"Where we were all standing? There must be."

"Good. I told Doctor Motorcycle Boy I had footage of him taking a swing at me."

"What?"

"I'll explain later. It's, well, there's a possibility I might need it. Probably not, but let's just say it's my insurance policy. Think you can get it?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Thanks. I owe you, Ryan."

"No, you don't. You tried to take a bullet for Beckett. I owe you."

He's so touched by that that he has to compose himself before heading out, where he takes the elevator upstairs. It turns out that he needn't have rushed: she's asleep. He sits by her bed for a while, looking at her, marveling at her. Hearing a soft footfall, he looks up to find the night nurse beckoning him, so he tiptoes out.

"Mister Castle, I'm afraid visiting hours are over."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was this late. I had to step away for a few minutes." Step away and beat the crap out a member of the staff. "Is she all right? Did anyone come to see her while I was out?"

"Just the doctor."

Holy shit, the doctor. "Davidson?"

"No, Doctor Kovacs. Her surgeon."

"Right. Of course. I'm just going to leave her a note, then. Don't want her to think I abandoned her. I can leave it next to her bed, can't I?"

"Absolutely. And don't worry. I doubt she thought that you abandoned her."

He's pretty sure the nurse winked at him, but he doesn't ask. Instead, he thanks her and returns to Beckett's bed. Ever since he started his first novel he's kept a notebook and pen in his pocket, and he takes them out now. Should he apologize for arguing with Josh in front of her, or should he not bring it up? Better not. Keep it simple. Light. Even though this whole situation is the antithesis of simple and light.

Dear Beckett,

I wanted to stay, but apparently the hospital has some kind of ridiculous rule about patients needing peace and quiet at night. So I'll see you in the morning, or whenever you're ready for company.

X Castle

He considers starting over. Was it all right to put the X at the bottom? He thinks that X means hug and O means kiss, though everyone debates it. It's got to be fine to indicate a hug, right? Much less personal than a kiss. Friends hug each other all the time. And it's not as though he hasn't told her that he loves her, either, even if she doesn't remember it. She doesn't, does she? Wouldn't she have said? She didn't remember that he knocked her down in the cemetery, so why would she recall his declaration of love, a few seconds later? And he's kissed her, too, even if it was a fake kiss. Although if that was a fake kiss—the one they've still never talked about—it was a fake worthy of the world's greatest actors. He puts his fingers to his lips; he can still feel hers there, three months and twenty-six days later. "Stop it, you idiot."

The sound of his own voice startles him. Beckett moves slightly, too, and he can see her eyes move below her lids, but she settles down.

It's time to go. He tears the page out, folds it over, writes her name on it, and leaves it on her bedside table, anchored by a vase. The one holding his flowers. She has a ton of them. It looks like a florist's display case in here. Had she chosen to have his, out of all of them, right next to her?

All the way home his heart sings a little.

When he wakes up, he's stunned to see that it's almost 8:30. "Slept like the dead," he says a few minutes later when he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. "Bad choice of words," he mumbles, and bows his head. "I need coffee." His head shoots up. Coffee! He'll make Beckett coffee! She can't drink that hospital swill.

But standing under 80 jets of warm water in his shower, he adjusts his thinking. She can't have caffeine. Forbidden after any kind of heart surgery. Wait. How about decaf? He'll make decaf. When he'd had trouble sleeping a few months ago, after their horrific plunge into the river, he'd finally found a really good blend. Not in a league with the real stuff, but remarkably good. The bag is still in his freezer.

An hour later, he's outside her room, waiting for the doctor to finish his exam. Kovacs doctor, not Davidson doctor. This decaf, which he has in a thermal cup, had seemed inspired, but he's suddenly nervous. Everyone in the hospital must know about Josh by now. He's going to have to tell Beckett. What if Davidson already has? Oh, God. But he was provoked, dammit. And once again, it was Josh who'd made the first move. Oh, here comes Kovacs.

"Good morning, doctor."

"Good morning, Mister Castle."

Thank you, God. Thank you. The surgeon smiled at him. "How's the patient today?"

"Why don't you see for yourself? I'm sure she'll appreciate the visit." He points to the shiny metal cups that Castle's holding. "What's that?"

"Decaf. For Beckett and me. I checked with the nurse. It's okay, isn't it?"

"Don't let her drink the whole thing. Half a cup, tops, and don't let her guzzle it."

"No guzzling, I promise."

"Okay then. I think that you and the coffee might be the best medicine. She was asking for both of you."

Kovacs chuckled. Actually chuckled. A surgeon. Wow. And she'd asked for him? Double wow. "Thanks."

"Morning, Beckett," he says, striding into her room.

"Morning." She's smiling, too.

"Brought you coffee. Decaf. And before you turn up your nose, let me tell you. It's tasty. Not great, but tasty. In a show of support, I made it for me, too."

"You're a good sport, Castle."

"Thanks." He puts the coffees on the wheeled table that's over her legs.

"I mean it."

He puts his hand lightly on her ankle. "Thank you." He has to say something before his shaky courage deserts him completely. "Listen, about last night."

"What about it?"

Shit, she's not going to make this easy. And why should she? "About Josh and me. Making a scene here. I apologize. I had no right."

"Neither did he."

"What?"

"He was out of line, Castle. Way out of line. I told him."

She told him? When had she told him? How was that possible? "You did?" He sounds so feeble.

"Yeah. Earlier this morning, when he stopped by."

"You saw him, then? Didn't just, you know, chat on the phone?" Chat? Get a grip. Chat. Geez.

"Oh, I saw him. He has a broken nose. Slipped on a step."

"He did? I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Besides, that's just what he told everyone else. He told me that you did it."

TBC

 **A/N** Hope you're all having a good weekend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

How can he explain this? How can he tell her that he lost it because Josh accused her of cheating? That he dropped the scumbag with two savage punches to prevent him from talking about Kate's sexual tastes? No. No. Never. He'll have to buy some time until he can come up with a story she'll believe.

"He did?"

"Yes, he did."

"What did he say, exactly? Well, not word-for-word, I hope you didn't have to hear every horrible detail, just, you know." He may be buying time, but he sounds like an idiot, which he may well be. Probably is. "He told you what happened?"

"He said you had an argument. Castle?"

"Mmm?"

"Would you mind sitting, please? I have zero strength, and if you're at my eye level it's easier." She looks down at her hands, one of which is bruised and slightly swollen from the IV. "I hate this."

"I'm sorry. I should never—"

"I'm not talking about you and Josh. I mean that I hate being feeble. I can barely hold my head up, for God's sake."

"Beckett." He's not aware of it, but his hand tightens a little on her ankle. "Don't be so hard on yourself. It's been only two days."

"I remember your hand," she gasps, but so softly that he's not sure that he heard her correctly.

"My?"

"Hand. You put your hand on my ankle when we were in the ambulance, didn't you?"

If she remembers that, then. He shakes his head. "You do? I mean, yes, I did. That was the only part of you I could reach when the EMTs." He breaks off there, can't finish the sentence except in his head, and it hurts like hell even unvoiced. _When the EMTs were trying to bring you back from the dead_.

"It was the touch. I think I felt really cold, and then there was the warmth of your hand. And it was so gentle."

Which pain is worse: the agony of being mentally back in that ambulance, or the stab of rage when he recalls the fight with Josh? No question, the former. At least he knows that she told Josh that he was out of line. It's time to address that particular elephant in the room. It's not an elephant; more like a Tyrannosaurus rex, baring its enormous, ferocious teeth.

He manages a wan smile. "I hope it helped." He picks up one of the thermal mugs and gives it to her. "Speaking of warmth, have some of this. Doctor Kovacs said you could, but just sips."

She follows doctor's orders, taking a small taste with both her hands wrapped around the mug. "Oh, thank you," she says, briefly closing her eyes.

"You're welcome. And on the subject of warmth—really, heat—it was not my best moment with Josh last night. Shouldn't have lost my temper." Although if I'd well and truly lost it, he thinks, I'd have killed him.

"Castle." Her eyes are wide open now, and steady on him. "Stop apologizing. Please. You asked me what Josh told me about it. He said that you claimed he doesn't know me anywhere near as well as you do, even though I'm his girlfriend."

Holy shit, is she going to recite his list? The dog's name? The thing about polar bears? She must think he's some kind of weird, sappy stalker, if a stalker can be sappy. But all he says is, "Oh." So lame. He can't leave it at that. "I guess I did, sort of. Yeah."

"It really pissed him off."

No kidding. Castle wants to looks anywhere but at her, but that would be cowardly, and this is not a time for timidity, so he keeps his eyes on hers. "I know."

"I told him that you were right."

Whoa, not what he'd expected. He hadn't expected anything, specifically, but certainly not that, and the surprise of it makes his head jerk backwards. "You said that?"

"It's true, you do know me better than he does, way better, and he should have been embarrassed by that, instead of furious." She falters, and seems about to crack, but even in her condition draws herself up a bit. "He didn't give me chapter and verse but he didn't need to, because as soon as he said it I knew. I should have realized it a long time ago, and that's my fault. I pushed it away. Hid from it. Hid in a nowhere relationship, just like you said. He's not interested in me, Castle, more the idea of me."

And the sex, Castle can't stop thinking, drawing from a deep reservoir of self-restraint to keep from wincing. He swallows so hard that he's afraid he'll choke on his Adam's apple, even though that's virtually impossible. The universe is so screwed up right now, who knows? At least he's in a hospital, where someone could help him if he does choke. Someone, anyone, but Josh. Josh would probably put his knee on his larynx and shatter it.

"Castle? You with me?"

"Yes, yes. Absolutely. Um, so that was it?"

"Are you kidding?"

"I wish I were, Beckett."

She looks defeated, all of a sudden. "Josh doesn't even know my favorite book. I asked him. He said that was the kind of thing you knew, and it wasn't important. But it is, isn't it?"

"I'm a writer, so my opinion's weighted."

"You know what my favorite book is."

"I do. Both of them."

"Both?"

"Your favorite kid's book and your favorite adult's book."

"You know my favorite children's book?"

"Sure. _Charlotte's Web_. Perfect choice. E. B. White was a genius. We had a case with a woman who was strangled in the bathroom of a fleabag hotel and I screamed when I saw a huge spider crawling on the tiles next to the body. I wanted you to kill it but you said, 'No! It could be Charlotte!' And we talked about the book for a few seconds. We hadn't been working together for very long, but right there at that scuzzy crime scene I knew that I loved you."

There is was, hanging in the faintly medicinal air of a depressing hospital room, his second unfiltered, unintended, unimpeachable declaration of love in less than 48 hours. She may have missed the first one, but there's not a chance that this one passed her by. If there were a canister of ether handy he'd self-administer it to knock himself out. If someone put a gun to his head—and at this point he might welcome it—he couldn't say how long the two of them sit there, not uttering a word. Until finally she breaks the silence.

"He's wildly jealous of you, Castle. I guess I suspected it before, maybe knew it, but I wouldn't admit it."

She hasn't responded to his saying that he loved her, but she's still being a lot gutsier than he is. He should, must, make another confession. "I'm wildly jealous of him, too."

"You are?"

"Of course I am, Kate." His hand is laid flat across his heart.

"Still?"

"Still? Yes."

"You shouldn't be. I broke up with him this morning. He was so wrong in so many ways, but he was right that I talk about you a lot, and there must be a reason. Is a reason. So before it all got really ugly and we both said hurtful things, I told him it was over. He said that you threatened him with unprofessional conduct, which is why he told everyone that he broke his nose by tripping on a step. I'm sure that you two said much more, a hell of a lot more to each other, but I don't want to know—"

"You're right," he interjects. "We did, and you don't. Shouldn't know. I'm sorry."

"Castle," she whispers, trying to take his hand, but unable to because she's tethered to a machine and he isn't sitting close enough. "Please stop apologizing."

"I'll try. Uh, you really broke up with him?"

"Yes. It was the right thing to do, wasn't it?"

"You're asking me?"

She nods. She's extraordinarily pale, and seems so frail, that he wonders if he could read a book through her skin. "I can't say I'm unhappy about it."

"That's all?"

Put it out there, he tells himself. Just put it out there. "If it means that I have a chance now, then I'm ecstatic. Do I? Have a chance with you?"

" 's why I did it. So I'd have a chance with you. We'd have a chance."

"You sure? It's not the meds talking?"

"'m doped up, but I'm not dopey. I want to talk to you while the pain meds are working, not when they're wearing off and I'm hanging on for the next dose. That's starting to happen now, and it's exhausting. Will you come back, Castle? I want to talk to you."

"Whenever you want. Whenever. Any time."

"Dad's coming." She rubs her temple as if to massage something out of it. A memory, maybe. "Lunchtime. So later."

"Later. Later is perfect." He's desperate to kiss her, but he can't, can he? Instead, he stands at the top of the bed and tucks an errant strand of wavy hair behind her ear. It horrifies him how quickly she fades; she's the strongest person he knows, but she can't fight these injuries alone. He holds his palm against her cheek, and just as he moves it away she gathers it up with her own and laces her fingers through his. Her eyes are closed and she doesn't say a word, so he stays as they are until her fingers loosen and he hears her breathing grow steady. Very slowly, he extricates his hand and lays hers on the bed. He's at the door when he pivots, returns to the bed, and kisses her on the forehead. After that, he really does leave, nodding goodbye to the nurses at the station.

He wants to dance and sing and drink Champagne, but there's no one with whom he can celebrate this. For now, at least, this is a solitary joy. "So I'd have a chance with you. So we'd have a chance." That's what she said. They're the best two sentences he's heard in years, deceptively simple and wonderfully complex.

His high spirits last until he gets home and it hits him: the person he should be celebrating with is Beckett. Kate. Both, she's both now. But what's to celebrate when she's stuck in the hospital for at least another week, and then she has weeks more, months, of grueling recovery? He goes to the kitchen to make a pot of much-needed, highly caffeinated coffee. While it's brewing, he sits on a stool, his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands. On a deep inhale, he gets the full force of the scent. It's Beckett's favorite blend, the one he makes her at home every working day and pours into two paper take-away cups that he orders by the hundreds. He carries it to the precinct and lets her think, assume, that it comes from a shop. It's his little secret. The best barista in the world doesn't understand her unique coffee palate as he does.

The coffee's ready, but only for him. He peers into his mug, watches until the slight eddy on the black, shimmering surface disappears. He can drink this, but she can't. How long before she will? How long before she can even sit up properly? What if she can never sit properly again? What if the doctor is wrong? In that instant, he is awash with grief, and caves in on himself. He slips to the floor, and the coffee splashes everywhere. He sobs, and unaccountably pounds himself violently in the chest, again and again.

Jesus, that hurts. The last blow lands at an odd angle, and his whole rib cage flares with pain. Gradually uncurling, he finally sits with his back supported by the fridge and massages the spot that took the impact. He envisions a bullet hitting there. What does it feel like, the tearing of flesh, the shredding of muscle, the splintering of bone? Did she feel it? Or was there just a flash of something, and that was it? A little ping. Was that it? Shock dulls pain initially, but shock has a short shelf life. How does she bear it? Because she does. She is. She's in that bed and talking to him, when she must be in pain that even the full force of his imagination cannot conjure.

The doctor can't be wrong, can he? No. Yes. No. Yes. "What the hell is the matter with you?" he shouts, and pushes himself off the floor. He's always been an optimist. He's the optimist. If the doctor is wrong, he'll take her to another doctor, who'll make it right. And why is he doubting Kovacs, anyway? Top of his class at Johns Hopkins, head of the hospital department, the best hospital in New York. No way the doctor is wrong.

Castle pulls some paper towels off the roll and wipes the floor. He puts the empty mug into the dishwasher, gets another from the cabinet and fills it. He goes to his office, which he regards as his best place for thinking. But rather than sit at his desk, he settles on the love seat. It's the perfect place. Love. He's in love, and optimism, hope, is making its way back through him like blood. With the tip of his index finger, he traces a line across his chest, over his right atrium—or his best guess of the location of the right atrium—and the right ventricle. He feels the pumping under his finger, and pictures hope traveling into the pulmonary artery, a river that branches out into a miraculous system of other arteries and capillaries. "Beckett," he says aloud. "Kate. You're going to be fine. And then we're going to be fine. I know it. I promise."

TBC

 **A/N** No cliffhanger this time. Things are looking up! Thank you, everyone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Her father had left half an hour ago. She'd loved having him visit, but it's difficult to see the strain that her shooting has put on him. She'd made him have an egg salad sandwich for lunch, but he'd only picked at it. "Dad," she'd said. "I'd give my right arm to be able to eat that, so do me a favor and look like you're enjoying it." At least that had gotten a smile, and he did end up having half of it. "Take the rest for later," she'd urged him, and he'd put it back in the plastic clamshell and nodded.

Maybe Lanie could bring her some makeup. Just a little blush, so that she doesn't look like the living dead. It might make her father feel better. Might make her feel better, too. And Castle. Although Castle seems so relieved that she's actually breathing on her own that he probably wouldn't care one way or the other. No wonder he's relieved, she realizes with a start: he's the one who'd witnessed her death, her mercifully brief death. At least her father had been spared that.

She'd just had some pain killers, so it's a good time to see Castle: after the initial surge has gone but the meds haven't begun to wear off. She calls him.

"Beckett?"

"Hi."

"How are you?"

"All right. Dad was here for a while, but he's gone. Would you like to come over?"

"Definitely. Almost there already. Seriously. The noise you hear is me trying to put on my shoes with one hand. I have to make a stop on the way, but it'll be quick."

"Don't bring flowers."

"Not my plan."

" 'kay. Bye."

"Bye."

Almost counting on him arriving with a flowering shrub—"This is not technically flowers," he'd insist—she sets the phone back on her tray table and it immediately rings.

"Did you forget where I am, Castle? Need directions?"

"Not a chance. What I forgot was to ask if there's anything you want."

"Nope. I just want you." She hears a sharp but muffled intake of breath. What was that about? Oh. Oh. She might not have to ask Lanie to bring blush, after all; her face must be radiating pink.

"Right," Castle responds. "Er, see you soon."

He clicks off because he's afraid that he'll say something hideously inappropriate. "I just want you." That's what she'd said. She probably hadn't meant it the way he'd like her to, but still. That plus "So I'd have a chance with you" can keep him going for a very long time. They'll help him go to sleep at night and wake up in the morning. He stuffs his keys and wallet in his pocket, and takes the stairs to the parking garage, pleased that he'd used the last few hours to round up something for Kate. The book dealer is more or less on the way to the hospital, and he phones before getting into the car to let her that know he's coming.

"I just want you, too, Kate," he says later in the quiet of the car, getting it out of his system as he parks in a lot opposite the medical complex. Apart from the day that Alexis was born, he's never been so happy to go through a hospital door. When he he gets to Kate's floor he drops a two-pound box of high-end Swiss chocolates at the nurses' station.

"Hi, Beckett," he says cheerily as he enters her room, holding up a small navy blue shopping bag. "I brought you something."

"I told you I just—." Is she blushing again? Dammit. "Uh, thank you Castle. You shouldn't have. Whatever it is."

"Don't say that before you see what's in here." He places the bag by her right hand, the one that's IV-free.

"A book?" She's peeking inside. "Books?"

"Not just any books. Two very special Beckett-flavored books. I hope you don't have them. Or if you did, I'm afraid they probably burned up in the explosion last year."

She pulls them out of the bag, slowly unwraps the first, a thick, oversized volume, and beams. "Oh, I've never even heard of this! _The Annotated Charlotte's Web_."

"Good, it'll be a treat then. It came out when you were about fourteen, when you were probably turning up your nose at children's literature, even something as great as _Charlotte's Web_. Go on," he nudges her knee with his finger. "Open the other one."

"Would you mind sitting down, please?"

"Ooops, sorry, eye-level." He plops down on the chair. "Done."

"This wouldn't be an annotated version of my favorite grown-up book, would it?" she asks, pointing at the smaller package. The end of the silvery ribbon is pinched between her thumb and index finger, and one of her eyebrows is raised.

"Annotated version? _Nyet_."

" _Nyet_?"

"That's what I said."

And that's all it takes for her to tug on the ribbon and push off the tissue paper. " _Gordost i Predubezhdenie_!"

"Is that how you say it? _Nyet_ 's about the extent of my Russian. Oh, and borscht and blini."

" _Pride and Prejudice_ in Russian. This will be exciting to read." Ah, there's the spark in her eyes that he's missed in the last week. "Thank you."

"Can't have your brain going soft while you're away from work."

When she runs her hands across the covers of both books, it occurs to her that they were, and are, completely off Josh's radar. Not Castle's though. Never his. She bows her head a fraction, then raises it. "Speaking of going soft, the doctor says he wants me to get into a chair. And then walk a little. Can't have my muscles atrophying. I don't have to do it right this instant, thank God. But soon."

"That'll be hard work."

"Mm-hmm."

He thinks she's going to continue, but she doesn't. She looks as if she's mulling something over, and he struggles to let her be. He does know how to be quiet, he's learning how.

"Castle?"

Maybe this is it, whatever it is. "Yes?"

"In the cemetery." She stops again. "In the cemetery, after you knocked me down." Another stop, even longer than the last one.

This is hell. It feels as if his lungs are seizing up, as if he's being held under water in some torture chamber. Until she turns her amber eyes on him.

"It's the only thing that I'm sure—positive—that I remember. You told me that you loved me. You did, didn't you?"

This is an immense effort for her, he can tell. But his lungs are recovering, reinflating with rich oxygen, and he finds his voice. "Yes, I did. I said, 'I love you, Kate'."

"I had to make sure, you know? Because it got me through a lot of the last two days. And nights. Sometimes I dreamed it, or thought I dreamed it. I don't know. It's all the pain, and the painkillers. But I hung on to it. I would be slipping away, and there it was."

Dear God, what an image. The slipping away.

"So I have to ask you something else about it."

What else could there be? "Sure."

"What you said. Did you mean it?"

"Did I mean it? Of course I meant it."

"But did you mean it like you would have said it, might say it, if I were normal? I mean if I weren't dying? If it were just a —. A regular day? An ordinary day?"

It's his turn to wait before he speaks, and before he does he covers her bruised, tender left hand very softly with his own. He can feel her veins under it. "Is this an ordinary day? A regular day?"

"Except for the part about me being in the hospital, I guess." She sounds a little tentative, not quite sure of herself. "It's an ordinary day."

"I don't think it is." He inches the chair forward until his face is only a hand's breadth from hers. He can see every one of her eyelashes, and the tiny, mesmerizing mole under her left eye. "I love you, Kate. I love you. You're not dying. You're _alive_. So I think this isn't an ordinary day at all. It's extraordinary." Her lips are slightly parted, and he's aching to kiss her. "But would I say 'I love you' on a regular day? August thirtieth, two thousand fourteen, maybe? Or March ninth, two thousand twenty? Yes, I would. Yes. And I will."

"I especially like the second one," she says shyly.

"The what?"

"March ninth, two thousand twenty. 'cause that would be exactly eleven years after we met."

There are many things that she could have said that would have surprised him, but that one rendered him almost speechless. "You remember that?"

"I remember a lot of things, Castle. You'd be surprised."

Is she reading his mind? "I would. Am. Surprised. Amazed."

Her eyes lock on his now. "I want to tell you something."

"Okay."

"On this ordinary, extraordinary day."

"Okay."

"I love you." She's trying to squeeze his hand. "I love you, Castle."

She said it. Shesaiditshesaiditshesaidit. "You do?"

She nods.

He leans in and whispers so softly that even a passerby with the ears of a bat couldn't hear him. "I know this is kind of a public place. The door is glass. You're in a bed, which should be the stuff of my dreams when you tell me you love me, except it's a hospital bed. But I really, really want to kiss you."

"Yeah? I really, really want to kiss you, too. Even though I don't have much, you know, oomph."

"Oomph? It you mean energy, and I know you are, it's true. You don't. But if we're talking about oomph meaning sex appeal, that's different. You're unbelievably oomphy right right now."

"In this getup? Are you kidding?"

"Even in that getup. What do you say? Besides, my head is so fat it'll probably block the view. No one will be able to see us kissing."

If he were ice, and at the moment he is anything but, her smile would liquefy him. "What's holding you back then?"

"Nothing," he says. "Absolutely nothing." He takes her face in his hands, looks at her until he can no longer bear waiting, and kisses her very lightly on the lips. Once, twice, three times, and then her right hand is around his neck, she's pulling him closer, and her mouth opens against his.

"This is a promise, Castle. A promise of a kiss from me. For an honest-to-God, no holds barred, full-blown kiss later."

"Full-blown, huh?"

"Shut up and kiss me again. It can be a little harder. Just not so hard that it makes my heart monitor go nuts."

He's not sure about her heart monitor, but at least no staff members have dashed into the room shouting "Code Blue." What he is sure of is that if they were monitoring him, they'd be here. His pulse must be 200 beats a minute. "That was a hell of a promissory note, Kate."

She runs two fingers over his lips. "Sorry it can't be more. Yet."

"I've waited this long, I can take it."

"Sorry I kept you waiting, Castle." She looks almost morose.

"Don't worry about it."

"Kinda kept myself waiting, too."

"You did?" Oh, this is news. This is great, great news. Breaking news.

"We'll have to talk about that later, though. I think you've worn me out."

He jumps up so hard he sends the tray table hurtling across the room. "Oh, God. Kate, I'm sorry."

"Castle! I bet I've asked you ten times since I got here to stop apologizing."

"Okay. Stopping. I'm stopping. And I'm going to go now. I'll see you later."

"I'm counting on it." Her eyelids are drooping.

He kisses her goodbye, but this time only on her palm. "Love you."

"Mmm. Same."

And she's asleep. He stands there for a while, looking at her. Does she always fall asleep so fast? It must be the trauma and the drugs, but maybe not. One day, one day soon, he hopes, he'll find out. He'll find out if she's a conker-outer or someone who drifts off. Someone who tosses and turns, or settles in and stays there. "There" meaning curled into his side, or against his back, maybe a leg tossed over his. For now, he has the promise of a kiss, and that's enough.

He doesn't remember leaving the hospital or unlocking the car or driving home. He's in the living room, looking around. This is it. This is where she'll come. This is where he can bring her, to recuperate. What better place? She can't be at home by herself. Someone would have to move in with her. He'd happily do it, but she doesn't have an extra bedroom and even though she loves him, she wants a chance with him, that doesn't translate as wanting him to move into her apartment as her, what, caregiver? She'd hate it. She'd throw him out in a day. But if she stays at the loft, he can sleep upstairs in the guest room, and she can stay in his room. No stairs. And the elevator here, unlike the one in her building, is reliable. When she's ready for PT, he can have the therapist come right to the living room. He knows she's private, God, how he knows it. But it's not as though he's asking her to move in with him. Well he is, sort of, but strictly for medicinal purposes. Unless of course she stays. Once she's well. Once she's well, she might want to stay. Please. Please, Kate. Please stay.

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you very much for all the good cheer that you're giving the story. Special thanks to the guest reviewers whom I can't thank anywhere but here.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

All he wants is for her to be well again, well and strong and fearless. That's all. She'd agreed to move into the loft for recuperation, however long that takes; she has been here for a week, living in his room while he's upstairs in the guest room. It has been a wonderful if difficult seven days. She's napping now, and he's at his desk in the office next to her, trying to sort out his emotions.

He'll admit, though not out loud, to a certain level of frustration. Or levels, plural, of frustrations, plural. He's silently ticking them off in no particular order, because he's ashamed to rank them anywhere but in the most deeply shadowed recesses of his mind.

One: Kate's reluctance, bordering on resistance, to taking pain killers sufficient to do the job, despite what the doctor recommends. And that he, Castle, suggests, at his own peril.

Two: Caffeine deprivation, his and hers, and how it adversely affects their moods.

Three: The rate of Kate's healing, which he finds astonishing but she rails at. "Why the hell can't I try walking up the stairs?" "How long before I can touch my toes, goddammit?" And so on, sometimes in considerably saltier language. Yesterday he'd had to look up one term online in Urban Dictionary, and almost blushed.

Four: Kate's poor appetite, even though he's making everything that he knows she loves.

Five: Terror, especially of the night variety. The shooter is a ghost. They haven't even a vague description of him. He hears Beckett, usually very late or very early when he can't sleep either, almost certainly for the same reason that she can't. She doesn't talk about it, and neither does he, but this can't go on. The next time he hears her, he's going to go into her (his) room and try to calm her down.

Six: Concomitantly, no progress on Kate's case. There is not a single clue or lead. Not a trace of a wisp of a thread. Furthermore, the new hard-ass Captain is "disinclined" to let the boys keep pursuing the case. "We have to devote our resources to new homicides," she'd snapped a few days ago, when he'd stopped by the precinct. He's also pretty sure that she's about to toss him out. Apparently she's not beholden to the mayor.

Seven: Sex, lack thereof. He's madly in love with Kate and feels like a monster, or pervert, for wanting her so badly. She's recovering, she's fragile,so how can he even think about sex? He's yearning, at the very least, to take her in his arms, but even that isn't really possible yet. It's not as though he hasn't waited before, wanted her, lusted for her, but it's so much tougher now that there is the reality of her, the pledge and commitment of her, when before he had only the hope or the wish or the dream.

Earlier this morning she had refused, as she has every day, to let her help him change her bandages. He'd been putting it down to her stubbornness and her insistence on self-sufficiency, at least as much as she can manage, but this time he'd persisted. "I'm perfectly capable of looking at you naked with clinical detachment, Kate. Doctors do it all the time."

"They've had years of practice, Castle, beginning in medical school. And they're not in love with me."

In that moment he'd had an epiphany. They're in love, and though she won't say it, she doesn't want him to see her scars and incisions, all vivid red, still so raw and angry-looking. He'd wanted to tell her right then that he didn't care, but she'd made him leave the room and she'd changed the dressings herself. It had taken a long time, as always. And then she'd gone back to bed.

There's a crash, a something, from the next room. He pushes his chair away from the desk with such strength that it caroms off the wall and smacks into the bookcase. The contents of half a shelf tumble onto the floor; he ignores them. He blasts through her door and sees her trembling at the edge of the bed, her legs dangling. The crash wasn't her, thank you, Jesus, it was her glass of water, which has broken into several pieces on the hardwood.

"I couldn't hang on to it," she says. She's in tears.

The hell with it. He's going to get on the bed and hold her. He'll be as gentle as any human has ever been. He crawls over the mattress and sits behind her, lifting her slowly until he's propped up against the headboard and she's resting on him, her back on his chest and her legs between his. "Shh, shh, shh. It's just a glass. I've probably dropped twenty of them in here, and I didn't have the excuse of not being up to snuff." He snags a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand, and dabs it under her eyes. "Or up to snuffle, either."

After a while she tilts her head—she's definitely improved a lot there—and gives him a watery smile. "Not bad, Castle. Up to snuffle."

"Thank you. Is this comfortable, sitting like this?"

"Mmhmm."

"It doesn't hurt, pull on anything?"

"No. It's the best I've felt in ages."

"You saying I'm a good pillow?"

"Excellent pillow."

She begins to play with his hand, picking up one finger and letting it drop, then another and another. He has no idea what she's up to, but whatever it is suits him perfectly. Finally she takes his right hand, lays it out flat over the middle of her stomach, and puts her own on top of it. "Do you know what I wish?"

There are many, many ways he'd like to answer that but he won't. He'll keep this very light, especially since he doesn't know where she's headed. "That the Yankees will win the World Series?"

"I wish that every year. No, something else."

"Don't think it would be a good idea to tickle it out of you Kate. Maybe you should just tell me." He buries his face in her hair. She'd let him wash it for her yesterday, and he's almost drunk on the smell and the softness.

"I wish it were Labor Day."

"Why Labor Day? It's only June, not even officially summer yet and you want it to be over?"

"No, I want my recovery period to be over. I talked to Doctor Kovacs on the phone and he said that I should really be well then."

"He did?"

"Yeah." She picks up his hand, kisses it, and puts it back on her stomach. "You know what I'm going to do when I wake up that morning? The very first thing?"

Whatever she says is fine, really, as long as it's not that she's packing up her things and moving back to her apartment. "Nope. What?" He's afraid and excited in equal measure.

She tilts her head again. "Fuck your brains out. Repeatedly."

If TNT had been detonated below the bed the explosion wouldn't have matched that of the laughter that erupts from him. He's howling, so hard and for long that it hurts, but early on in the lava laugh he has just enough wits to hold onto Kate so that she's not excessively jostled.

Eventually he catches his breath. "I need that Kleenex I used on you a few minutes ago. I've heard about laughing 'til you cry, but this is the first time it's happened to me."

"I'm serious, Castle. About what I said."

"And despite my reaction, I'm serious when I say that it's the first thing I want to do when I wake up that morning, too. Fuck your brains out. Repeatedly. By lunch we'll both be brainless."

She wiggles slightly, as much as she can. "Maybe if I work incredibly hard I can be better before then. Like August, sometime."

"Mmmm, what can I do to give you incentive?"

"Oh, I think I've got all the incentive I need right underneath me."

"Katherine Beckett, your mouth!"

"Yeah, you know nothing about what my mouth is capable of. Yet."

Laughter engulfs him again, and slowly ebbs. "I'm going to lift you to the side of the bed. Because if I don't take a shower right now that emits tiny shards of ice, I'll be in big, big trouble."

"You bragging, Castle?"

"That does it," he says, and carefully slides her to his side. "I'm outta here."

"Does your million-dollar shower really have an ice-cube setting?" she asks as he retreats quickly to the bathroom.

"No," he shouts from the other side of the door, "but close. If it's not cold enough I'll take all the ice cream out of the freezer and stand in there for a while."

It is cold enough, but after he's dressed he goes to the kitchen anyway, fills two bowls with ice cream, and carries them to the bedroom.

She looks dubious. "Isn't it kind of early in the day for ice cream?"

"Nonsense. It's eleven. Besides, ice cream is a dairy product, so just consider it a breakfast item, like yogurt, or milk on your cereal. Or a cheese omelet."

"Superb logic. Is that the kind of thing you tried out on your mother when you were a kid?"

"Yup."

"Did it work?"

"Depended on how awake she was at the time."

"How about Alexis?"

"Oh, she's much too sensible. I was the one who used to suggest it to her. C'mon, try this. It's your favorite."

"My favorite doesn't exist any more, Castle," she says gloomily.

"Does so." He passes her a bowl. "Look in there."

She pokes her spoon into the ice cream. "Nooo," she says. "Noooo, this isn't possible." When she takes a bite her face becomes a rhapsody. "It's Charlie Brownie! Charlie Brownie! Baskin-Robbins hasn't made this in forever. How did you get it?"

"There was a huge supply in some underground vat outside Omaha."

"Really." She smacks his forearm with her spoon. "Where did you get it?"

"Really? I had it made. Online ice cream service. They'll make anything you ask, so I asked. See? It's another example of my hanging on your every word, Beckett. You described this stuff to me in minute detail once, and I made note of it in case I ever needed it."

"Please, I did not."

"Did, too. You and the guys and I went out for drinks after the chef murder last year. Balthazar Wolf. At your pal Madison's restaurant. You and Esposito had mocked me when I mourned the fact that I never got to try his foie gras sandwich. I asked you what thought could stand up to that and you said Charlie Brownie ice cream, with the peanuts and pieces of brownie in it, the nectar of your childhood."

"I told you that?" The not-breakfast dairy product is beginning to dribble onto her lap.

"You might have had quite a lot to drink by then."

"Apparently. I don't remember it. But it's true, Castle. Give me Charlie Brownie any day over foie gras. And no duck got tortured and force fed to make it." When she looks up, she sees his expression has changed to—wistful? "Is something wrong?"

"You know what I remember even more from that case? What I said to you at the end. 'The heart wants what the heart wants.' And my heart wanted yours so badly, and off you went with Demming."

Simply hearing Demming's name makes her wince, because it reminds her of the disaster that happened just two weeks later, when Castle left the precinct with Gina and she was left on her own. She tries to shake off the memory. She takes two of his fingers and presses the tips against the pulse on her wrist. "Feel that? You have my heart now."

"I do."

"Thank you for the ice cream. That was—" She takes a long, long look at him. "Heavenly. And I should know. I came pretty close to Heaven a couple of weeks ago. At least I hope that's where I was headed."

"I'm glad you turned around," he whispers, biting his tongue to keep himself from calling her angel. "Came back."

Much later, he's cleaning the kitchen after dinner. Kate goes to bed very early, and they'd said their good nights. He has a strong sense that things had shifted dramatically today, in a good, important way. They're still on an emotional seesaw, but today—for the first time since the shooting—they had teased each other, they had flirted fairly outrageously, with a purpose. They hadn't shied away at all. What had made the difference? He's been mulling it over, off and on, for hours and he's finally figured it out. He thinks. It was the physical contact. He'd been afraid of it, afraid that she'd break emotionally and physically. And when she'd cried over the broken glass, he had no longer been able to hold off. Touching, skin on skin, is a primal, basic need. Its importance is immeasurable, and so are its benefits. He and Kate need more of it—not sexually, yet. Just touching. He's standing at the stove, a dishtowel over his shoulder, when he hears her slow footsteps, and spins around. There she is, in the middle of the living room.

"Castle?"

"Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away."

"I was just wondering."

Wondering what? What? What? The old him would ask; the new one is forcing himself not to. Eventually she'll tell him. "Mmm?"

"Even though you're not a doctor. Could you help me change my bandages, please?"

TBC

 **A/N** Baby steps! Thank you, readers, reviewers, followers, and favoriters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** This story ends in M territory. If that's not your cup of tea, please stop reading at "He doesn't get the third word out because she has spun his chair around, thrown one leg over his, and is in his lap, straddling him." You can take my word for it: they're very happy together.

The loft's blueprints would indicate that the distance from where Castle is standing to the bathroom is roughly 67 feet, but as he walks it with Beckett he'd swear on a Bible that it's a mile. He slows his pace to match hers, and tries to envision what he'll do when they arrive. Will she sit or stand? Partially undo her robe or what? Hand him the bandages without instructions or micromanage? He's grateful that she'd given him no warning, because he's a wreck. What if his hands get sweaty and he drops the scissors, or worse? What if, in trying not to stare, he misses his…target…and does something awful like put adhesive tape on her nipple?

He's a man of the world. It's not as though he's unfamiliar with breasts. Even, though he has never divulged this, hers. Well, not completely. Not both of them. Not even all of one, in fact, just the gorgeous curve of the right one, the outer edge of it and part of the areola. Maybe he should tell her, in their new spirit of honesty. Confess his breastpionage. It wasn't really, though: it had been an accident. When she was in the tub, naked, after her apartment had been bombed last year, he had caught sight of it. Okay, he might have looked a little longer than he should have, but who could blame him?

"Castle?"

"Huh?" Oh, they're here. In his daze he hadn't noticed her removing her robe and hanging it on the back of the door. She's standing in front of him in little sky blue sleep shorts—a misnomer if ever there were one, since he will not be able to sleep if he thinks about them—and an oversized navy blue tee shirt that flaps around her. Her hand is on the hem. Now her other hand is, too. This is not the way he'd ever imagined seeing her strip.

"I'll take them off," she says, looking down at the two dressings, one near the top of her sternum, the other much lower, on the side of her rib cage. While she pulls back the paper tape he tries to look at her clinically, and he mostly succeeds. Until she peels off the bandages.

He'd thought that he was prepared for this, he truly had. He's seen horrible, gaping chest wounds at countless crime scenes, and he's as tough as any beat cop. But the crime scene has never been his bathroom, and more to the point, far more to the point, the chest wounds have never belonged to a woman with whom he is profoundly in love. She briefly bows her head when she drops the bandages in the sink, and in that instant he prays that she missed his initial reaction, a grim mix of grief, shock, pain, rage. He hopes that most of it has vanished when she raises her eyes.

He'd meant to say something like, "What should I do first?" or "Is there an ointment that goes on first?" Something straightforward and impersonal. Instead, his voice breaks on, "Oh, Kate," and his hand involuntarily hovers over the raised, purplish-red disc that's between her breasts. He knows exactly what caused it: a 7.62 caliber bullet fired from an MK11 rifle that is deadly accurate at 1,500 yards. But she's not dead. She's not dead. She's alive and all she needs is a little help putting on a fresh bandage. That's all. All for right now. She's not dead.

"It's okay, Castle," she says in the quiet of the white-tiled expanse. "I'm okay."

"I know, I know you are." He feels something wet land on his shirt. What? It's him. He's crying. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. The pain. It must be awful. And the other one. The incision there." He flaps hand in its direction.

"Not as bad as it was. It looks even more hideous than it feels."

"Not hideous. Nothing about you could ever be hideous." He wipes his eyes with his shirtsleeve, takes her face in his hands and kisses her as hard as he dares. "When Alexis was little and got a cut or a bruise I'd always kiss it to make it better. But I'm afraid of kissing your —. Your places."

"Wounds."

"Right, wounds. I'm afraid kissing them might do more harm than good. And hurt like hell. You, I mean. But later I will. Pretty soon they'll be healed and then I'll kiss them every day."

"You promise?"

"Absolutely."

"Better not be the only places you kiss me, Castle."

Bless you, Kate Beckett, he says silently. Bless you for turning this around, for making it possible for me to do this. "They won't be." He grins. "What should I do first?" See, that was easy.

"Wash your hands and then put the antibiotic cream on the wounds. Dab it. Carefully."

He gets through it. Doesn't put tape on her nipple or anywhere else that it doesn't belong. It's only when she lifts her tee shirt from the counter and puts it back on that he realizes that she hasn't been wearing a bra. Maybe he was doctorly after all. "There," he says. "All done."

"Thanks, Castle."

"Anytime."

"Even though you did that, not me, I'm wiped. Going to bed."

"You need anything else? How about pills?"

"Took 'em already."

"Good. Okay. Um, you go ahead and I'll turn the light off."

"No." She grabs his arm. "Don't. Please. I sleep with it on. At night. Just at night."

The memory pounds him savagely in the gut. Jim Beckett had come here, unannounced, right before she'd been shot, and had asked his help in convincing her to stop chasing her mother's case. They'd spoken about how fierce she was. "She wouldn't accept a night light when she was a little girl," Jim had said. "Not that she wasn't afraid of the dark, but I think she just felt it was a point of pride to stare it down." What this must cost her, then, not to be able to stare down the dark. He wants to weep.

"Me, too, sometimes. Sometimes I leave the light on." He squeezes her hand, walks with her to the edge of the bed, and kisses her shoulder before she lies down. "Night, Kate."

"Night, Castle."

He's pulling the door closed when her voice reaches him, and he steps back in.

The light from the bathroom makes her face visible; she's looking sleepily at him. "I love you."

"I love you, too." This time he closes the door completely, walks heavily up the stairs, stays up only long enough to brush his teeth, and collapses into bed. Lord, what a day. What a day. He's not aware of another thing until sunlight hits him full in the face at almost 8:00 the next morning. He'd forgotten to draw the curtains, and the June dawn is so early that the sun is already high enough to be coming in the window next to him. It's 8:00! Shit, Kate must be up, and he has to make her decaf. He grabs his bathrobe, and from the top of the stairs hears noises; he propels himself down the steps two at a time.

"Kate! What are you doing?"

She's in front of the espresso machine, still wearing those tiny shorts and the big tee shirt. "I'm dying for some coffee. And I'm starving."

"Sit down, sit down, sit down. It's too much."

"I got some bread in the toaster."

"Some bread? You mean as in more than one piece?"

"Yeah." She holds up her fingers in a vee. "Two."

"That's excellent news. Let me do the rest. I'm sorry I overslept." Jesus, how long are her legs, anyway? He's seen them on average five days a week for three years, but not like this, uncovered, and the rest of her almost uncovered. Except for the huge shirt. _Under which she still has no bra_. He permits himself a moment to reflect on this, justifying it as non-pervy after what she'd said about Labor Day. Which is exactly 88 days from now, and yes, he's counting.

"Could I have an egg, please?"

"An egg? You're hungry enough for an egg?"

"Yup."

"I have chicken eggs. Organic, free-range chickens. But maybe you want something bigger. Duck? Ostrich? I can go out."

"One egg from chicken little will be fine."

She eats both pieces of toast and the egg. And when he puts his fork down next to his much larger portion of eggs she leans over, grabs it, and helps herself to a bite. He's thrilled.

When he's pretending to work later that morning he opens his laptop and clicks on a new file that he'd created while she was in the hospital: KB MILESTONES. He enters today's date and time, and types: "She used my fork to eat some scrambled egg from my plate. First time we have shared an eating implement. I haven't put it in the dishwasher yet; might save it."

The days and weeks progress. More important, she makes progress. Not every day, but almost. Sometimes she beats herself up or gets depressed over PT. Sometimes she retreats into herself and closes herself in her room, though it happens less and less often. He father comes over for quick visits or a meal; Lanie and the boys do, too. They do not discuss her case because there is nothing to discuss.

His MILESTONES file gets fatter (June 16: "Kate walked twelve blocks." June 17: "She let me massage her feet." June 25: "Sat on my lap for first time.") On the evening of July 14 she gets up from the sofa where they've been watching a movie and puts her hand out. "Bedtime," she says.

"Bedtime? For you maybe, not me. It's only nine-fifteen."

"What if I say I want you to come to bed with me? Just bed, no extracurricular activities."

"I can come to bed with you?"

"You know what today is?"

"Christmas and my birthday, if I get to share a bed with you."

"Seriously. It's Bastille Day. The French equivalent of the Fourth of July."

" _Liberté, égalité, fraternité_?"

" _Oui_. And I have a surprise for you."

"Not sure my heart can take another surprise at the moment, Kate."

"I can lie on my side. Finally! And I want you to lie on your side next to me."

"You mean spooning?"

"Yes. But before you get any ideas, no forking."

"Right."

They spend the whole night that way. When he wakes, she's still asleep, holding onto two of his fingers.

He creeps into his office and clicks on his favorite file. JULY 14: "Shared her bed with me." The next entry is JULY 17: "Took a bath with me."

A week later he brings her breakfast in bed—the bed they've been sharing, relatively chastely, for the last ten nights.

"How would you feel about spending the rest of the summer in the Hamptons?"

"With your mother? I love her, but no."

"Not with my mother. Or my daughter, either. Alexis's day-camp summer program for inner-city kids in Boston goes until the end of August, and my mother is going away with friends for the entire month. They rented a Tuscan farm house."

"Martha's staying on a farm? Sounds like an update of _Green Acres_."

"That's what I was afraid of, too. I said, 'I hope there's no farming to be done, Mother.' And she said, 'Good Lord no, Richard. But we are paying for a gardener who tends the vegetable plot. It's not an actual _farm_ , you know.' I could hear her shudder over the phone."

"But I have to be in the city for PT and the doctor."

"You could do hydrotherapy every day in the pool, which would be fantastic for you. And before you say that your therapist can't come out there, let me say that I will bring her to the Hamptons."

"She does have other patients, Castle. She can't just go larking around."

"I've already got it figured out. She doesn't usually work on Sundays, so that can be one of your days. And I'll drive you into the city on Wednesdays for your other appointment. And when you need to see Doctor Kovacs you could do it the same day."

"My insurance—"

"Never mind your insurance. That's my present. I'll pay to have her come out here, pay her for a whole day. I'm sure she'd like a little time at the beach. She can stay here in the house, or I'll reserve a hotel room for her if she's more comfortable with that. Besides."

"Besides what?" Her eyes narrow with suspicion.

"The sea air will do you good."

She looks at him for a long time before she responds. "So will you, Castle."

"So will I what?"

"Do me good."

It does do her good, and him, too. She's apprehensive about walking on the sand at first because it shifts under her feet and she's afraid of falling. But every day she gets a little bolder; she gets a tan; she eats properly. The one thing she completely avoids is discussing her Labor Day goal. His mother is due to return in five days and Alexis in four. He starts daydreaming about renting a hotel room for Kate and him. A suite.

They'd gone into the city today for her physical therapy as well as for a lengthy appointment with Doctor Kovcas. She has also been seeing a psychiatrist, Doctor Burke, every Wednesday since early July. Three sessions treating very different parts of her have done her in, and she wants to stay at the loft tonight rather than go back to the Hamptons. "You sure you're all right?" he asks her over dinner, Italian takeout that they're eating in the kitchen.

"Fine. Just a lot to think about."

"Okay. You going to bed?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to write for a while."

"Good. Good, Castle." She gets up and walks towards the bedroom, stopping to trail her fingertips across the back of his neck. It gives him goosebumps. And other physical responses on which he cannot act.

It's 1:15 a.m. when the alarm on her phone goes off, very quietly. She gets out of bed, puts the tee shirt she's wearing in the hamper, and retrieves a small bag from behind the stack of towels in the bathroom linen closet. She'd stored it there last Wednesday. She looks inside the bag, smiles a little nervously, and checks herself in the mirror before brushing her hair and dabbing perfume behind her ears and her knees.

He has lost track of time. The glow of his commuter screen is the only illumination in his office. He could have been in here for an hour or five, but he looks up because he feels a displacement of air. It's Kate, although he can see her only in outline. He looks at the corner of the screen and notes that it's almost 1:30.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Oh, no, I slept fine." She takes several steps forward until she's standing almost within reach. "I was just taking a nap."

He gapes. She's in a tiny nightgown. He has never seen this nightgown, this confection of black silk with narrow satin ribbons for straps. She takes his breath away, truly. Blood is rushing to his face and elsewhere. Particularly elsewhere. "Why were you taking a nap in the middle of the night?"

" 'cause of what Doctor Kovacs told me this afternoon."

"I didn't know he'd told you anything. What happened?"

"He says I'm well, Castle. Really well. I've been working so, so hard, you know? I'm ready ten days ahead of schedule. Ten days before Labor Day. That's why I took a nap. I wanted to build up my strength for tonight, and I did. So. I'm ready to fuck your brains out. What do you say?"

"Oh, my G—"

He doesn't get the third word out because she has spun his chair around, thrown one leg over his and is in his lap, straddling him. "I wanted one of our times on our first night to be fast and hard and dirty and sweaty. I wanted us to be saying incredible, deliciously filthy things to each other while we were up against a wall or the closet door or on your desk or the hood of the Ferrari, but I'm not up to that yet. But I'm ready for a lot, and I can't wait any longer, can you?" While she was listing their future sexual,um, venues—he'd committed them to memory as she mentioned them—she had taken hold of his tee shirt and with one yank gotten it over his head and dropped it onto the floor next to his desk. If that's an indication of how strong she is already, then fast, hard, dirty, and sweaty are not far off.

He's trying to answer her, but she's just unzipped his jeans, snaked a hand inside his boxers, and wrapped her long, warm fingers around him. "It feels like you can't wait any longer, either," she murmurs, nuzzling his neck as her hips rock into his.

He slides his hands under her, expecting to fill his palms with silk-covered buttocks, but the silk he feels is her skin. "You're not wearing panties," he says enthusiastically if needlessly.

"Saving time, Castle."

Standing up easily as she wraps her legs around his waist, he race walks them to the next room. "How's that for saving time?" he asks, shoving down his pants and stepping out of them as soon as he's carefully deposited her on the bed. He scoots up on his forearms and settles just above her. "What can I do, Kate?" he whispers. "Can I do this?" He takes her nightgown off her. "Can I do this?" He kisses her between her breasts, then circles each nipple, very tenderly, with his tongue. "Can I do this?" He lets his fingertips dance over her oblique muscles, while he kisses his way from her navel to the sharp jut of her left hipbone, then across the white mark of her bikini line to her right hipbone. "Can I do this?" He pushes up lightly on her calves to make her knees bend, and places her feet flat on either side of him.

Each time he asks, "Can I do this?" she tries to answer, "Yes. Yes, you can. Please, yes," but apparently working so hard on building up her bodily strength has had an adverse impact on her speech. She can't say a thing. But oh, God, can she feel him. She feels everything.

"Can I do this?" He runs his tongue up the inside of one of her thighs and down the other. She may have temporarily lost her power of speech, but not the ability to make sounds. She groans. With each pass of his tongue—and he's proceeding agonizingly slowly but with increasing pressure—she moans louder, and can hardly control her movements. She's half off the bed, straining wildly upwards to his wicked, monstrous, heavenly tongue. And when he stops just long enough to reiterate, "Can I do this?" and curls one, then two fingers into her, her voice miraculously returns. "YES! YES! YES!" she screams, while he works her physically and emotionally higher. Her feet do something, she has no idea what, and she comes hard and tight again and again and again around his fingers. "Holy fuck, Castle," she pants, waiting for her breathing to even out. "Roll over."

"Roll over?"

"Yes. In another month I'll be able to flip you like a freaking burger, but not now. Get on your back."

"Ooh, so bossy."

"Shut up."

"You seemed to like my mouth very much a moment ago."

"I did, I did, but just roll over. Please."

Once he does, she slithers on top of him. She's seen him nude before, skinny dipping in the pool, in the bath, but everything is different now. He's different. He's flushed; every one of his gorgeous muscles and sinews and tendons is glistening, and his arousal is impressive. Magnificent. Huge. In one tiny corner of her overheated mind she's nervous. But she's never wanted anything, or anyone, as much as she wants him right now. She rises up on her knees, and rolls her body up his, one, two, three, four times. Undulating. Sliding over him. "I'm going to make you as hard as I am wet," she says. "Can I do this?" She takes him in her hand, and strokes him, teasing the tip with her tongue before releasing him. "Can I do this?" She slides far up his chest, this time trapping him against her clitoris, and when she clenches they both gasp.

"Jesus, Kate."

"Didn't know I could do that."

"Don't stop there."

"Hell, no," she says, rising up again before lowering herself deliberately onto him.

"God, you feel so good," they say, each to the other, perfectly in synch. Still a little apprehensive about what her body can bear, he lets her set the pace. It's gentle at first, and that's fine with him.

It's fine with her, as she looks into his eyes. No one has ever looked at her the way he does, with such boundless love.

She's rocking faster now, and he's matching every move. No one has ever looked at him as she is now, loving him without limits or reservations.

"Don't hold back, Castle."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Faster, please. I need you to go faster." Still short on stamina, she's leaning on his chest. He has tremendous strength in his legs, arms, shoulders, back, and core, and he lifts her up, lowers her, supports her, takes control, shifts his position slightly so that he is thrusting into her at a different angle. She's clawing at him, forcing him deeper, and then he's gathering her up, and she feels weightless, and flying. She explodes, and seconds later so does he.

"Castle?" she asks much later, after they have drifted in and out of sleep, talked about everything and nothing, nothing and everything. "Thank you."

"Thank you? For what? I should be thanking you."

"No. This is another kind of thank you. Thank you for making sure I came back. Thank you for bringing me back."

"You're home."

"I am."

 **A/N** That's it for this story, which ending up going far beyond the first couple of days in the hospital. Thank you for all the encouragement along the way, especially (as always) those whom I can't thank: Hawkie, Moochiechat, Chacha, Tom Knutson, Aburt221, and many others who are identified only as Guest.


End file.
